The 'Drops', as we called them, were a series of man- made waterfalls in upstate Montana. American and Canadian farmers had channeled the winding Milk River to irrigate their crops, then channeled the meandering river back to its path, making waterfalls. The highest were over sixty feet; some hardly cleared twenty.

We rode along green, grassy hills, the long blades of grass waving in the wind, broken by pastures cut short by herds of sheep. Golden canola fields leave resplendent streaks on the green, against a perfect, blue, June sky. Many people would have said 'woah' to their horses and stared, but I saw this every day. It was beautiful, definitely, but there weren't any trees to break the monotone flow of brown and green hills. Deep, rocky ravines mark property borders, like God's fingernails dragged through the soft dirt. It's nice to be able to go over those hills and around the confused river and her drops.

We rode over the hill, with Will in the lead, but I was close behind. Dixie wasn't the kind of mare to be second- she could outrun anybody in Alberta, I was sure of that. Finally, Will and his steed stopped, and he consulted a little compass he had in his pocket. I pulled the reins, and, though her head tossed and she gave what was almost a harrumph, Dixie stopped.

"I'm pretty sure that the fork is only another kilometre ahead," stated Will confidently. He nudged the horse forward, but Charlie was already rushing from the back of our caravan to the front, galloping his dappled mare for all she was worth.

"Race you!" he whooped, as though it was a war cry.

If he was gonna race, I wasn't about to back down. With another holler, I spurred Dixie on, holding tight to the reins as she galloped gleefully over the sloping land.

I had passed Charlie and his old workhorse a half-kilometre back, and then, looking over Dixie's white mane and gray neck, I saw that Will had been wrong. We hadn't been a kilometre from the anticipated fork of the Milk River, we had been a half- kilometre. I stared down at its churning brown waters. The river had flooded with the past few day's rain. It must be six feet deep, and it'd be dangerous, seeing as how it bristled with an undercurrent, swirling with mud and swollen with rain.

I hadn't realized how long I had been there, just a few feet from the banks of the river until I heard a low whistle. I saw that the other boys had caught up to me.

"That's sure gonna be one heck of a doozy to get over," commented James. I though of his wagon- it had all our food- it had to get across, too.

"I'll start," said Will bravely, nudging his reluctant horse forwards, into the fast- flowing waters. Slowly, as we all held our breaths, the two eased themselves in. It was a long, terse minute before he stepped onto the opposite bank. a great cheer came up, and then Charlie went next, and then it was my turn.

I could feel Dixie tense her muscles at the cold of the water and at its swift current, but I nudged her forward. Soon, I felt the ground go out from underneath me, but I was still safe on my horses's back. She had only begun to swim, her powerful legs fighting the movement of the water, the swirls threatening to engulf me. I caught my breath and tried not to be afraid as I muttered a little prayer. Dear God, I pleaded as Dixie struggled, is this how it's supposed to end? am I really supposed to see no more than 1948? I squeezed my eyes shut. Please, please, don't let this be the end, God. amen.

I was standing on dry ground- or, Dixie was. I breathed a sigh of relief.

Now, it was time for the wagon to cross the rushing water. I had crossed. Charlie, shaking from his dark curls to his knobby knees, had crossed. Will, in all his tawny-haired, sun-tanned glory, had crossed. Only James, his gray eyes dark with fear, had to lead his horse across the water. He drew a deep breath, started forward, and then stopped.

"The wagon- it's too heavy," he called across the narrow ford.

"Throw us the supplies," called Will.

James obeyed, tossing the bedrolls across the water. I caught Will's army-insignia-embellished roll of blankets and clothes, and he didn't even thank me when I tossed it to him. He just nodded, then narrowly missed catching Charlie's. It hit the muddy ground with a cry from its owner, who rushed to pick it up.

"I can't throw the food," called Will.

"Why not?" Will was already mad about the delay in crossing. The sun wasn't near setting, not even close, but he seemed to have a picture in his mind about this campout. He was determined to be the Scoutmaster we didn't have.

"It'll fall apart!" came the reply.

Will huffed. "Well, your wagon should be light enough now. Cross already, man!"

We all watched tensely, holding our breaths in the warm air. A cool breeze flitted across the hills, making the legs of my blue jeans tingle with cold. I hadn't even noticed that they had gotten wet, but I didn't care, either. They'd dry fast enough. Besides, wasn't James taking a wagon across the river much more exciting than wet pants?

The first half of the river was easy, but we didn't make a sound. The river had the steep drop, where the banks normally were, and we watched the big, speckled roan swim, struggling to pull the nearly- empty wagon. The food rested on the seat, next to Will, and wobbled only a little with the rocking and thrashing of the wagon.

We cheered as Will jumped onto the somewhat- dry ground. He patted his horse. "Good boy, Pete," he praised, pulling an apple core from his pocket. Gratefully, the horse took it.

James turned to us. "We can put your bundles back in the wagon bed," he said. "There won't be another crossing until we're going home-" He abruptly stopped, then tried to grab the wagon again, but he was too late. A swell of river had caught the back wheels of the wagon, pulling it back into treacherous water.

All that we could do was help him unhitch Pete from the wagon, the ropes taut and stiff, not to mention wet. As soon as the wagon was free, it rolled into the river- and tipped over.